


Happy

by hungry_hobbits



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, If They Lived, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 09:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15216569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungry_hobbits/pseuds/hungry_hobbits
Summary: Just a man and his love.





	Happy

They lived together in tenement housing, though it was not as roommates brought together by retirement from a life at sea. To a more discerning eye, John Bridgens and Harry Peglar were more of a husband and wife. They spent their mornings and evenings together. When they could get away with it, they linked fingers under tables, or walked a bit too close together in a way that seemed odd when going to the market. When they were in private, they could barely contain their affections.

They lived meagerly and within their means, paying for what their pensions could afford. It wasn’t a grand life by any means but it was nice regardless and above all: they were happy. Really, they deserved a bit of happiness after the torment they endured in the form of an icy hell in which no one involved thought they could ever escape by the time the tribulation reached its end.

There were two beds in their space. Two beds for two bachelors who were living together. Though one bed almost always went unused. They preferred to be a tangled mess of limbs, pressed together in dreamless but calm sleep. The mattress was lumpy, a bit too small for Peglar’s long frame, but when they lay together it felt better than any fancy bed that riches could buy.

 

_________________

 

Tonight was a quiet one, giving John time to muse on their situation. They had been together for what felt like ages, always on the sea and hardly on land. It felt so odd being able to come home to the man he loved more dearly than life itself, but it felt so right at the same time. Their honeymoon phase had long since passed, but the love they had for one another had not frayed in any way shape or form. They enjoyed each other’s company. Evenings like this were spent by the warm glow of a fire, just being together as they read or performed little chores.

_Perhaps I could do a bit of mending_ , John mused as surely some of Harry’s clothes were in need of repair. The younger man worked so hard, doing odd jobs here and there. He couldn’t go back to a life on the sea, his body was not the same as it had been those years before. He wasn’t as spry as he used to be, his joints ached and his body was weak in ways he had never experienced. The arctic took much of his strength in exchange for allowing him to keep his life, it seemed.

John felt like a wife, sometimes, as all the more domestic responsibilities were his. He kept himself busy, as Harry did, but when he was home alone he found himself falling back into his decades of routine; cleaning, mending, cooking. It made him happy, and he didn’t mind it at all. He wanted Harry to come home to something warm to eat, to come home to someone who would greet him with open arms and a kiss on the cheek like a proper wife would. It didn’t matter that he were a man, and that their set up would be a bit queer to the average onlooker, all that mattered to him was Harry.

 

He looked to his lover, his husband in another life, and smiled. Harry was preoccupied and did not notice his partner’s gaze on him as he gently poked at their little fire.

“Harry?” John broke the silence, “You know what we have not done in a while?”

“What is that?” Harry’s eyes caught the light of the fire as he turned his head, making them sparkle almost.

“I haven’t heard you read in quite some time.”

“That is true. I’ve been rather busy. But what is the difference between you reading to me, and me reading to you?”

“You need to keep up your practice of course, you don’t want to get rusty. And besides,” John got up slowly from his chair and crossed the short gap between them to be near his Harry, “I love to hear you read.”

 

_________________

 

They settled into their bed that wasn’t nearly big enough for two people, but they were never bold enough to risk the noise that moving the second bed would cause. It would certainly be more comfortable to push the two beds together, but they got enough odd looks and comments as it was and they wanted to remain on the landlord’s good side.

John offered numerous times to get him a new pocket journal, one that wasn’t so worn from the arctic winds and from sea water and from rough nights on rough rocks, but he also understood the sentimental value to the bound book that Harry kept with him always. Its pages told stories that were not written down, the wobbly scrawling and misspelt words were insight into the person who possessed the journal. His thoughts, his musings, his attempts at poetry both original and from memory, and letters to a certain someone in his life. But John just wanted to make sure those memories stay preserved. Maybe he’d surprise him over Christmas with a new one, for use when his current one became too full.

“What shall I read then?” Harry gently thumbed the pages his rough and calloused hands had swept across countless times, “From the journal? Or from the shelf?”

John’s book collection was not as impressive as he would like. With their limited space he found himself choosier in what he brought into their home. He was lucky that he and his lover had similar tastes, albeit differing reading ability, but even after all this time Harry was still hungry for more knowledge. He wanted to make John proud with all those lessons.

“Your favorite would be nice. I’ve not heard you speak it in so long.” John found himself tucked against his lover’s side, head resting on the younger man’s strong but gentle shoulder.

 

Harry nodded, cleared his throat and began. “ _The sea, the sea, the open sea. The blue, the fresh, the ever free. Without a mark, without a bound, it runneth the earth’s wide regions round; it plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, or like a cradled creature lies._ ” In truth, the former foretop captain could’ve recited the poem from memory completely without a hitch. It was something he was proud of, though to some it might be trivial. He was happy, despite their hardships, that he could still recall each word and verse.

The last time he had read the poem aloud, they were huddled together in a canvas tent. The wind beating against the sides. It was one of the few times along the lonely trek that they had an ability to be alone, and they took full advantage of it. A few moments without prying eyes where they could hold each other amidst the pains both physically and from their situation. The recital brought comfort, a sense of normality in a time where there was pure uncertainty running amuck. Harry continued, his soft voice sounding peaceful as he read, “ _I’m on the sea. I’m on the sea. I am where I would ever be; with the blue above, and the blue below, and silence whereso’er I go; if a storm should come and awake the deep, what matter? I shall ride and sleep._ ”

 

John shut his eyes, listening to his lover’s words. It reminded him of better days on different ships, of cold nights on hard ground. He was glad to be where he was; in a tiny room, in a tiny bed, and with the love of his life. He slid a hand onto Harry’s arm and squeezed it, a reassuring touch that was more for himself than for Harry. He needed to be sure this moment was real and not some sort of cruel delusion brought on by the wretchedness of starvation and scurvy. _No_ , he thought, _this is real. I am here and he is as well and we are together_.

“John? Are you alright?” Harry stopped his reading, his bearded face laced with worry as he set his journal down on his lap.

“I’m fine. Just thinking.” John opened his eyes to meet his lover’s gaze. How he’d never grow tired of looking into that man’s eyes.

“Thinking? About what?” The younger man tilted his head to the side, causing John to chuckle.

“About us, Harry,” John gave him a wistful smile, “about us, and how happy I am to be here.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you do not know, the poem that Peglar is reading is "The Sea" by Barry Cornwall :3c


End file.
